Los Angeles, CA
A fine night's sleep, over all too soon, as at 7am I have to meet Eli in the hotel lobby. I’d agreed the night before to cover his parking charges for the hire car on my expenses, as otherwise he’d have to do an artist invoice to EMI and wait for reimbursement. However my helpfulness proves my undoing as the hotel informed me at midnight that I’d have to pay in person when Eli checks out and – lucky old me – he’s on an early flight to New York. So here I am, wiping sleep from my eyes and handing over the company credit card to save him the hassle of $69.
At least I’m up and about so I spend a couple of hours wading through emails before breakfast. Over poached eggs and toast (I’m not facing yesterday’s cheese mountain again) Lois, Tom and I look through all the photos, discussing double-page openers, full length portraits, potential captions and feature headlines – things I have no control over but can offer my tuppence worth on anyway. Discussions over, I say goodbye to them as they’re heading off record shopping and I want to have a nice walk before heading to the airport.
I decide to do the touristy thing and wander through the parks and the waterfront – a perfect way to take in Chicago’s famous skyline. The sun is shining down on Millennium Park and I stumble upon one of the best pieces of modern art I’ve ever seen; a huge curved swirl of reflection stands proud, surrounded by gaping tourists as the 360 degree images of the city distort and bounce back in all directions. School kids clamber underneath it, families gather to take photos of themselves in it and I follow suit, impressed by the simplicity yet drama of the structure.
Further down the park is the Chicago Museum of Modern Art, a treasure trove of wonders and a fitting landmark for a city built upon design magnificence, but I don’t have time for a visit. Instead I walk over the surreal flow of the BP Bridge down to the shoreline and then meander through Grant Park past the Lincoln Memorial and the Buckingham Fountain, crisscrossing the paths that thread through the green expanse. New York may be one of the world’s greatest cities but Chicago more than holds its own against its eastern rival, with a far more beautiful array of buildings thrusting towards the sky than is visible from Central Park.
I reach the far end of the promenade, dodging fools on Segways sporting bright yellow jackets and pootling along in convoys of stupidity, and wander past Chicago’s impressive Field Museum to the Aquarium. On my last visit I went inside and after marvelling at the huge tanks of exotic fish I was disturbed to find whales swimming around a glass-fronted enclosure within. If ever animals can look sad, then these majestic creatures appeared truly tragic. So I walk past the aquarium with high-minded disdain, preferring the vast freedom of Lake Michigan.
By now, it’s time to start making my way back to the hotel, so I walk up State Street, stopping off for a quick bit of shopping at a couple of clothes stores and grabbing a turkey sandwich ("hold the mayo!") at a deli. As I come out, wiping crumbs from my face, I’m accosted by a charity mugger from Greenpeace. “Hey sir, may I talk to you about saving the planet?” she asks. I inform her that I already donate to Greenpeace in the UK. “Alright!” she hollers. “Hi five!!” And she punches the air next to my outstretched, somewhat surprised palm. “You have a GREAT day,” she beams.
If only some of her charm and enthusiasm could have transferred to the staff of United Airlines an hour later as I try to check in. The bored and surly woman who spends her time pointing at queues to tell economy passengers where to do auto-check in, is the rudest service employee I’ve met since a concierge in St Petersburg almost spat with disgust when I asked her if she could order us a cab. In addition to printing my own boarding pass (not uncommon) I also have to check my own bags in, which is ridiculously unclear on their system. When I ask her how I do this, she jabs at the machine and grunts “Do it there”. Yes, but would you mind showing me how. “S’easy, do it yo’self!”
Hmmm, we don’t seem to be getting anywhere. Eventually I work out how to do it but have to negotiate the slovenly employee once more to find out which security gate I should use. “How should I know?!” she barks. “I ain’t been through them today.” And I suspect, therein lies the crux of her problem. She resents all the people flying off to other cities, sunnier climes, happier lives while she just spends all day, every day, pointing at beeping machines while stupid travellers just piss her off. I can see her point, but hey – try a bit harder, be a bit nicer and you might get a promotion. And who knows, one day you may get that flight to Las Vegas, put your life savings on the roulette wheel and walk away a millionaire…
Somehow though I expect she’d spend her savings on cheap margaritas, get ripped off by a dealer and end up eating out of bins on the desert strip. Couldn’t happen to a nicer person.
Once past security I encounter possibly the most barren departures area of any major airport. About two shops for ten thousand people and not a coffee shop in sight. No wonder the hotel receptionist looked at me as if I was mad when I told her I thought I should leave two hours to check in. “You only need about 40 minutes honey,” she’d said. But ever mindful not to miss my flight I disregarded her advice. And now here I am trying to find anywhere to sit down.
I walk the length of the terminal and eventually right at the end find a little bar that has seats. With all this time to kill I decide to have a glass of wine and am asked to provide ID. Not bad considering I turn 40 in three weeks. Despite having my passport on me, for some reason I produce my driver’s licence instead. At this point the young blonde with dazzlingly bright teeth on the bar stool next to me coos, “Nice licence.” Sorry?!?
“You’re from the UK, right? I tried to get a cab driver in London to let me drive his cab so I could say I’d driven in England,” she slurs, a couple of empty beer glasses in front of her. “He said no, so I asked if I could just sit on his lap while he drove,” she continues. “He threw me out. Y’know, I bet if he was from Ireland he’d a let me!”
“Erm, I’m not sure he would”, I volunteer.
“Sure he would,” she counters. “Say, do you like the Beatles? I went to Liverpool when I was in England, but they told me they don’t like London. And the people in London don’t like Liverpool. What’s your problem?” At this point, she starts sliding from her stool. It’s 4pm. I take my leave and go and nurse my glass at a far table. When I look up five minutes later she’s trying to chat to some other unsuspecting guy. He soon leaves too. An hour later, when I head to my gate she’s scrabbling round in her purse to look for money for the next drink. I think she’s forgotten she’s meant to be getting on a plane.
I make my way to the gate, settle down in my window seat and start reading the book I picked up at Heathrow – Dara O’Brian’s examination of the English psyche from an Irishman’s perspective. It’s the next best thing to having Coman with me. Unfortunately I end up with a (very cute) young Frenchman sat next to me. Unfortunate because he falls asleep before we’ve even taken off and stays that way for the whole four and a half hours 'til we land in Los Angeles. With bladder bursting I elbow half the plane out of the way once we land to make my way to the nearest restroom. Thank God I’ve pre-assigned my self an aisle seat for the flight back to the UK.
Bags collected I get a cab into West Hollywood and check into Le Montrose Suites about 9pm. The sister hotel to my usual haunt, The Grafton on Sunset, I’ve been recommended to stay at Le Montrose by The Sun’s Jacqui Swift. It’s a little quieter and more out of the way than the Grafton but all the better for it, with a rooftop pool and, apparently, a tennis court. The rooms are rather lovely too, stylish with a separate sitting area and even a fake fire. It’s a nice touch considering there’s quite a nip in the air tonight.
I dump my bags and immediately make contact with Paul Sexton, the journalist from the Sunday Times who is here, along with Jacqui who arrives tomorrow, to interview a new band I’m working with, Lady Antebellum. I meet Paul in the lobby and we walk up to Sunset Boulevard in search of dinner. A lovely Thai restaurant called Talesai appears on the corner and we opt for that as the nearest option..
Paul flew in earlier this afternoon and despite his jetlag we have a big old conversation taking in everything from the state of British radio to the online policies of News International; general music chitchat that winds us through our meal until the call of bedtime cannot be ignored. With four nights here in LA before heading to Santa Monica and then into the desert for Coachella I decide to unpack completely and hang up my new purchases, listening to The Monkees for extra California sunshine vibes. Who knows, tomorrow may even bring some swimwear action…
